


color in your cheeks

by iciousvay



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cause leave it to me to accidentally emotionally scar someone, Crying, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, I'm tagging the FUCK out of this, Jack Rollins is a Mean Old Man, M/M, MENTION of piss kink, Painful Sex, Painplay, Punishment, Rough Sex, Smoking, Spanking, Threats of Violence, Twink Brock Rumlow, Verbal Humiliation, this shit is kinda fucked y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iciousvay/pseuds/iciousvay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Just thinking," Brock says finally, almost a full minute late. Jack looks at him for awhile, looks and looks, and then, slowly, he smiles. It's not a nice smile. Brock swallows on reflex.</i> </p><p>  <i>"Just thinking," Jack repeats. He reaches out, fast, and knocks his knuckles against the side of Brock's head, laughing when Brock flinches. "We gotta do something to get you out of that head. C'mon."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	color in your cheeks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brawlite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/gifts), [linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/gifts), [mathildia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/gifts), [Spitshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/gifts).



> Inspired by the works of [brawlite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite), [linguamortua](http://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua), [mathildia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia) and [spitshine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine). This is an offering presented at the feet of gods. (Or: all my faves have a 'Jack fucks Brock up and everyone gets off on it' fic, and I wanted one too, goddamn it.)
> 
> Working title: Jack is Kind of a Cunt
> 
> Heed the fucking tags.

It’s Thursday.

Not that that means anything in particular. They don’t have much of a schedule. Brock still calls before he comes over, and there's always still a little knot of tension in his stomach beforehand, because he’s always sure this is going to be the time that Jack tells him to “beat it, kid,” and not be talking about his dick for once.

“I don't give a fuck what you do," Jack says when Brock asks, and he sounds mad, distracted. Something else is probably broken in that shithole fixer-upper he owns, twenty minutes outside the city. Brock’s not sure it's smart to get himself nice and alone with Jack when he’s already pissed off, but Brock has never been accused of being particularly brilliant, so he goes anyway.

Sure enough, Jack is underneath the sink when Brock finds him, shirtless and cursing. There are tools on the floor around him, but Brock is pretty sure Jack is wrenching the pipe apart with his bare hands. It’s such a disgusting display of testosterone that Brock wants to roll his eyes, wants to lick along the veins straining in Jack’s wrists. He sits in one of the kitchen chairs instead, scraping it on the linoleum with a loud screech, hoping the noise catches Jack by surprise. He doesn’t get the upper hand very much.

“Fuck up my floor and I’ll fuck up your face,” Jack says, not even taking his head out from under the sink. As far as Jack’s threats go, it’s not his best. Brock checks the floor for scratches anyway. There are none.

Brock sits quietly for a long time, longer than either of them probably expect him to. He makes a game out of it. How many breaths can he take between one of Jack’s curses and the next? Three, and then two. How many tiles can he count before Jack gives up and reaches for one of his tools? Thirty-six. How long can he look at Jack lying with his shirt off before he thinks about going down on his knees and helping Jack out of his jeans? He gives up on that one before he even starts. He’s been half-hard since the ride over. Jack turns him on in general, and the flex of his washboard stomach makes Brock want to go ahead and beg. Jack would probably like that, except he gets a little pissy about distractions when he’s fixing something. Brock had tried to talk him away from working on the dishwasher, once, and had gotten smacked for his troubles. Not even a proper spanking, just one single smack over his jeans. And then Jack had dragged him into the corner and pushed his face against the wall, said “I got better things to do than play with you today. Stay here and shut the fuck up.” Brock had considered arguing, but Jack’s grip on the nape of his neck was hard enough to bruise and his voice was mean, so Brock had stayed there and he had shut the fuck up.

Brock doesn’t feel much like spending his night in the corner, so he waits.

It’s probably twenty more minutes before Jack finally, finally wipes his hands on his jeans and gets out from under the counter. His knees pop and so does his neck when he leans it to the side. His body sounds old and rusted, creaking back to life. It’s so at odds with his tight stomach and thick-muscled arms that Brock forgets to make a joke about how ancient Jack is. Jack blinks at him, like he was expecting it, or like maybe he forgot Brock was there at all.

He palms a tiny matchbook from his back pocket and breaks one off, sticks it in his mouth. It's a habit of his, one Brock privately finds funny. Jack says Brock has an oral fixation, that he spends his time gagging for something in his mouth, but Jack’s the one that’s always sucking on something. His matches, a cigarette, the end of a pen. Jack would probably beat him bloody if he said something about it, though, so he doesn’t say anything.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jack says, not really a question. He rolls the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other, staring Brock down. “Been suckin’ too much cock? Finally fuck your voicebox up with someone’s dick?”

Brock doesn’t like the way Jack says ‘someone’. The only dick he’s been sucking is Jack’s, and Jack _knows_ that. Jack gives it to him good enough that he’s not looking for it anywhere else, but more than that, Jack’s kind of… well, jealous isn’t the word for it. Possessive, more like. He looked at Brock once, apropos of fucking nothing, and asked if Brock was fucking anyone else. It’d been early on in this thing that is still not quite a thing, and they sure as hell weren't dating, not now and especially not then. Not that it mattered, because Jack had been it for Brock pretty much since day one, and he’d said as much. Jack hadn’t even mocked him for being a queer, had just taken him by the chin and looked at Brock seriously and said ‘Good. Cause if someone else touches you, I’ll kill ‘em. And I’ll fucking _ruin_ you.’

Jack has already ruined him, in a way. Ruined him for anyone else.

“Just thinking,” Brock says finally, almost a full minute late. Jack looks at him for awhile, looks and looks, and then, slowly, he smiles. It’s not a nice smile. Brock swallows on reflex.

“Just thinking,” Jack repeats. He reaches out, fast, and knocks his knuckles against the side of Brock’s head, laughing when Brock flinches. “We gotta do something to get you out of that head. C’mon.”

Jack leads him to the bedroom. Brock’s stomach tightens. Jack’s the kind of guy who uses the bedroom for two reasons – to sleep, or to fuck. He doesn’t look very tired. Brock’s still halfway to hardness.

It’s the least furnished room of the house. There’s a dresser, the bed, and a big leather chair that’s as uncomfortable as it is ugly. Brock hadn’t given the chair much thought until he’d woken up one night without Jack in bed beside him and had found him sprawled out across the leather monstrosity. Helped him sleep, he said when Brock asked. They didn’t have Tempur-Pedics overseas, apparently. Jack didn’t talk much about his time in the army, but his scars and bad knees and constant habit of keeping his back to the wall said enough.

Jack reclines in that chair now, his knees spread. There’s just enough room for Brock to fit between them. He takes a step.

“Stop.” Brock stops. “Take your clothes off. Gimme a show.”

Jack doesn’t really want a show. Jack had laughed in his face the first time Brock had actually tried to strip, had called him a fag, had asked if he should run to the ATM for some singles or if Brock was just gonna give it up for free like the whore he was. Brock knows better now. Jack likes efficiency. Jack likes to look.

Brock likes to be looked at.

“Nice,” Jack says when Brock is naked, soft, almost a sigh. The matchstick bobs, like Jack is working his tongue over his teeth. “Real fuckin’ nice. Get on the bed.”

Brock shifts his weight, leaning in the direction of the bed, but doesn’t move.

Jack’s eyes go from calm to cloudy faster than he can blink.

“You can’t fucking hear me, or something?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands are huge. Brock swallows, a reflex, knowing Jack can move fast as a viper when he really wants to, and he’s already poised to strike.

“I… I don’t know how you want me.” Which is a stupid excuse, in hindsight. If Jack’s not happy with him, all he has to do is say the word and Brock will scramble to obey. But the storm gathering in Jack’s eyes breaks, and he smiles.

“Hands and knees,” he says, relaxing back again, taking the matchstick from his mouth and replacing it with a cigarette from the crumpled box he produces from his pocket. The scratch of the match against flint makes Brock jump. Jack inhales deeply and blows out a long stream of smoke in Brock’s direction. “Like the goddamned whore you are.”

Brock tries not to tremble, bracing himself on the mattress. His knees dig deep into the soft give of the bed, and his sweaty hands slip on the satiny sheets. He’s not putting on a very good show. Jack tuts, and Brock hangs his head, ashamed.

The leather squeaks when Jack heaves himself off of it. The hair on Brock’s arms stands on end. He’s so exposed. The room is warm, only the lazy overhead fan making any attempt at stirring the stifling air, but it still feels cool against his overheated skin. He’s already gone hard. Jack’s right. He is a goddamned whore.

“Now, that’s pretty,” Jack says. His belt buckle jangles, and Brock thinks for an excited moment Jack means to fuck him already, but then there’s the quiet snick of his belt sliding through the loops. God, no. Jack’s going to hit him. He hates when Jack hits him.

“What did I do?” he asks. There’s a sad little note of desperation in his voice, and he’s ashamed that it sounds like he’s already about to cry. He will cry—he always does when Jack hits him—but Jack hasn’t even touched him yet. He feels like he’s losing control of the situation, which is hilarious, because he never had any control to begin with. Not with Jack.

Brock can’t see him, but he hears Jack take a long inhale, and then a warm stream of smoke hits his back. Goosebumps prick up all along his arms. His nipples tighten. Jack flicks the ashes off the end of his cigarette and he fists his hands in the sheets, eyes clenched closed, but the ashes are cool by the time they touch his skin.

“Ain’t done a thing, whore.” Brock thinks maybe he should apologize, but he doesn’t know how to say he’s sorry for not doing anything, and so he doesn’t speak. Jack taps the cold buckle of his belt against the last knob of Brock’s spine and Brock jumps. “You’re tense today,” Jack comments, but Brock is mostly sure Jack’s not really talking to him, so he still says nothing.

Jack strikes fast, grabs a fistful of Brock’s hair and yanks. Brock yelps, has to rear up on his knees so Jack doesn’t tear it all out. His eyes water. At least now he has an excuse for the tears.

“I know you hate the belt, slut,” Jack says in his ear, voice a low, angry rumble. Brock forgets himself, claws at Jack’s wrist and the fingers in his hair, but Jack shakes him once, like he’s a disobedient dog, and Brock drops his hands. “And I know you like to think I’ll give you whatever you want, even though there’s nothing you could give me that I couldn’t just take.” Brock shudders, hard, body mixed up about what it wants to feel. Jack has turned Brock into the worst kind of painslut, desperate for the bite of his nails or the smack of his hand or the terrible cold ache of him leaving Brock on the bed for hours, on all fours, dripping and exhausted. The first time, Jack had left him like with no instruction for nearly four hours. Jack’d had his nose in a book, but he’d somehow managed to tally every time Brock’s hands slid, or his knees slipped apart. Jack had whipped Brock with his belt for every single one, and fucked him after, even when Brock was sore and crying and trying to get away. It had hurt; that’s what he had said. ‘It hurts, please, Jack, it hurts so much,’ he had sobbed, and Jack had fucked him hard and said, ‘It’s supposed to.’

Brock wants that hurt, now. Likes it, even, in some sick way. Likes knowing Jack made him want it. Made him take it. Jack has told him before that Brock is his sex doll. His fucktoy. Jack calls him that, sometimes, cups his face and spits in his mouth and tells Brock he’s the most beautiful sex toy money could buy.

But that’s one of the good names. Jack’s not calling him the good names, now.

Jack shakes him again, so hard his teeth rattle. “Better start talking, cunt, or it’s gonna get real rough for you.”

Brock figures it’s probably going to be rough for him either way, but it’s just not smart to provoke Jack, so he opens his mouth. “Please don’t hit me with your belt,” comes out on a ragged exhale, before Brock even knew he was going to say it.

Jack’s grinning, he can feel it, but his voice sounds as stern as ever. “That’s it? Come on, slut. Is there even a brain in there, or is your head just another hole for me to fuck?”

Brock doesn’t know what he _wants_. His knees are already aching from digging into the bed and his scalp is tender where Jack is still gripping his hair. His cheeks are wet with tears he didn’t know he had started to shed. He sniffles, tries not to sound too miserable. “I’ve been good.” He’s whining. He knows he’s whining. Jack hates it when he whines. Jack releases his hair, shoves his face down into the mattress, and continues working his belt free. Brock gets a little desperate. “Don’t! Daddy, please don’t.”

Jack goes still.

Brock doesn’t say it much. He had an alright childhood, not something he’s gonna cry over, and he sure as hell doesn’t have daddy issues, thanks very much. “You’re fuckin' a guy fifteen years older than you,” Jack had pointed out, the first time Brock had refused to say it. It was the first time Brock had told him ‘no’. Probably the first time a piece of ass had ever denied Jack anything.

Jack had shrugged it off and hadn’t brought it up again.

Brock hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

‘Daddy,’ he had whispered to himself, standing in front of the mirror, making sure the ghost of his father didn’t appear to beat him into the next century. God, he’s nineteen years old, a grown man, still afraid of being punished by his dad.

So maybe Jack was right. Maybe he does have some daddy issues.

He’d said it for the first time on accident. Jack had been in one of his good moods, had even wrapped a hand around Brock’s dick while he fucked him, got him off good early on. Brock had gone loose and pliant, going where Jack moved him, his leg hooked lazily around Jack’s waist as he pumped, Jack’s thick-muscled arms caging him in. “Say my name,” Jack had said. Brock was ready for him to come already, and maybe that’s why he said it.

“Jack,” Brock had sighed, arms around Jack’s broad shoulders. “Mm. Daddy.”

Jack’s orgasm had seemed to take him by as much surprise as the sudden name.

Brock had only said it a handful of times since. It was special. Reserved. Jack never hurt him when he said it. Didn’t even call him mean names. He’d still fuck Brock hard, hands sure and firm on his thighs, his throat, but he didn’t slap or spit or choke Brock unconscious. He called Brock ‘sweetheart’ and made sure Brock came first.

Brock turns his face to the side to take a gulp of the hot air, unsure in the sudden stillness. Jack hasn’t said anything yet, but he doesn’t push Brock’s face back into the mattress. It’s quiet for awhile. Brock’s lungs burn and he realizes he’s stopped breathing. He exhales, loud and shaky.

“Oh, you stupid little cunt,” Jack says, voice quiet. His voice is calmer than Brock has ever heard it, and so he doesn’t expect the first blow.

Brock screams when the buckle bites into his skin. It sounds like he’s being murdered. They’ve had the cops called on them before, which is impressive when Jack's nearest neighbor isn’t even visible from the house. Jack had made him practice being quiet afterwards, had moved the coffee table and put Brock there instead. He’d balanced his drinks and his feet on Brock’s back, and if Brock had spilled or shook or made a sound, Jack had used him as an ashtray. There are a cluster of perfect circular scars in the center of Brock’s back, silvery now that they’ve healed. He only remembers them when he’s being too loud.

He thinks about them now, but not before Jack takes his belt and loops it in front of Brock’s face. “Shut up,” Jack growls, forcing the leather between Brock’s teeth. “Open your fucking mouth or I’ll break your jaw, I swear to God.” Brock lets his lips fall apart, and Jack ratchets the belt closed, so tight the corners of Brock’s mouth ache. He’s just finishing the thought that at least Jack can’t belt him now when Jack climbs off the bed, comes into Brock’s line of sight. Jack’s pants are hanging open and he’s shirtless, sweating already. He’s so fucking gorgeous Brock can’t help but spread his legs wider. Jack notices, of course he notices, and when he returns to the bed with another one of his belts he gives Brock a good slap for it. This belt is thinner, lighter, but Jack wields it like a whip and Brock screams through the gag. Jack laughs, hits him again. “Keep screaming, bitch, nobody’s gonna help you.”

Jack makes him wait a long time between each strike, because it hurts more when he’s nervous and waiting. Jack reaches between his legs and belts his dick, once, and the white hot pain of it makes him crumble, chest heaving against the mattress, hands clenched into tight fists above his head. He’s streamlined, a long display of naked skin for Jack to hurt. It doesn’t even occur to him that his hands are free, that he could fight back. Jack so often had him tied that he can nearly feel the raw bite of rope, even now.

He was so stupid to think he had any kind of power over Jack. Jack’s the kind of man that takes what he wants, when he wants it, and he’s not gonna be put off by some sweet cunt calling him daddy. Stupid, stupid.

Seven more strikes. Eight. He can’t draw in enough breath around the gag. Snot and spit wet his face. He thinks he might be bleeding; there’s the heavy, dull throb of an open wound where the buckle caught his back. His dick is still mostly hard. His throat feels like Jack took sandpaper to it. If Jack keeps it up long enough, there’s going to be nothing left. He’s going to dry up, shriveled and useless.

And Jack will probably just spit into his hand and fuck him dry. Pull out of his ass and spill in his mouth, because Jack is just narcissistic enough to believe Brock could survive off of his come.

(He’s probably right.)

Jack hooks his fingers into the belt looped around Brock’s face. Brock digs his teeth into the leather, hard, and hangs there when Jack hauls him up, suspended between Jack’s hard body and the acrid bit in his mouth. Jack’s got a finger inside him now, and Brock’s so overcome with the relief that Jack’s hands are too full of him to still be holding the belt that it takes him awhile to realize it feels good. “Thank you, Jack,” he gasps through the gag, but it’s unintelligible and Jack laughs.

“Still talkin’, huh? You must really like the sound of your own voice.” That’s rich, coming from him. “Bet you want that belt off. Kinda hard to talk with your mouth full, huh? Sweet bitch has manners.”

Brock’s so fucking confused. Every welt the belt left is throbbing and his teeth ache with how tight he’s got them pinched together in the thick leather, but only his daddy calls him sweet. Jack pushes a second finger inside, mostly dry, and fumbles with the belt, one-handed, and all of a sudden Brock’s free. He lets the belt drop to the bed, a thin thread of spit keeping it connected to his mouth for a few seconds. The bite marks he left are deep, unsalvageable. That was Jack’s favorite belt. Brock’s so scared Jack's going to belt him again that he starts to cry.

“What are you crying for?” Jack’s voice is the perfect balance of amused and stern. “Daddy just had to teach you a lesson. You can’t always get out of things just because you’re a pretty cunt and you like to manipulate me.”

Had he done that? He can’t remember. He probably had.

He wonders if Jack got off. Jack gets nicer sometimes, after he comes.

Except then he’s leaning over Brock’s back, leaning into the welts so he can reach the bedside drawer, fish out the lube. Brock thinks he should probably thank Jack for using lube at all, but maybe the thought of fucking Brock dry hasn’t occurred to Jack yet, and Brock is sure as fuck not gonna be the one to put the idea in his head. He stays quiet, waits for the press of Jack’s fingers inside, except… except. That’s Jack’s dick. Two fingers was not enough to get Brock ready for anything, much less the brutal push of Jack’s cock, but Brock can’t beg him to stop, because that would probably be manipulative. He almost wants the belt back, just to sink his teeth into something, but then he remembers he’s probably already going to be in trouble for that and he sobs, overwhelmed and aching.

“Fuckin’ tight,” Jack says, teeth gritted. He smooths his hands up Brock’s back, over the welts, and then drags his nails back down. Brock jolts, throat too dry to scream properly, and Jack gives a laugh, short and breathless. “Like a fuckin’ virgin, god _damn_.”

Brock’s vision is swimming, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the tears or because he sort of wants to pass out. He only has a couple of times and he’s always mortified after, mostly because Jack refuses to keep fucking him. “If I wanted to fuck a corpse, I’d slit your whore throat open,” Jack had said the first time, and when he had finally wanted to fuck Brock again, he’d made Brock keep his eyes open the whole time. They were raw, streaming, but the first time he dared close them for longer than a second, Jack had backhanded him and called him a useless cunt, said he had no reason to keep Brock around if he couldn’t even fuck right. “That’s all you’re good for, and you’re not even good at that.” Jack had finished himself off in the bathroom, with the door pulled firmly closed. He didn’t fuck Brock for a week after, and he only did then because Brock had broken two dishes and a lamp. Jack insisted he did it on purpose, for attention, and had punished Brock brutally for it, but the truth of it was Brock just couldn’t focus when Jack didn’t fuck him. Jack had this strange way of making him good.

Maybe Jack’s right. Maybe this is all he’s good for.

“You’re still thinking.” Jack stops thrusting. His voice is even, but Brock hears the ragged threat of it. “Is this not _enough_ for you?” And then he laughs. “Well, of course it’s not. You’re not happy unless it really hurts, are you?” And that’s not true, it’s not true, it’s _not_ , but Jack takes both of Brock’s wrists and jerks them up tight behind his back, shoulders straining, and the sound Brock makes is almost a moan. “That good enough? You gonna focus now? Or do I have to break something?” He pulls, just a little bit, and Brock’s shoulders protest, like they might pop out of their sockets, like Jack might really break him.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_.”

Jack grants him a single, savage thrust. Brock’s body moves up the bed with the force of it. “Yeah,” he says back, a lazy drawl, like he’s _bored_ , like his dick’s not so far up in Brock that Brock can almost taste it. “Yeah, you are pretty fucking sorry.”

Brock says it again, just to be sure Jack _knows_. “I’m sorry.” He’d say it one more time, but Jack lets go of his wrists and shoves his face into the mattress to shut him up. Brock can’t really breathe through the sheets, but he doesn’t fight back.

“Keep your hands behind your back,” Jack says. Brock grabs his own wrist, aching where Jack’s big hand crushed his bones together. Jack gives him another thrust, this one not as hard as before, not gentle but slow. Brock feels every inch of it. Jack pulls all the way out and then feeds himself back in, a millimeter at a time, stretching Brock around the wide head and holding there for an excruciating few seconds. Jack’s big to begin with, and getting fucked by the widest part of him _aches_. He shudders, full-body, and pushes back onto Jack’s dick before he can think better of it. Jack gives him a few inches and doesn’t even get mad about it, says “ _There_ you are,” and fucks him proper. Gets his leg up on the bed, foot flat, so he can really give it to Brock, nailing the sweet spot that makes Brock wail, makes him forget himself and writhe on the bed, writhe on Jack’s cock.

“Please, give it to me,” he begs, because Jack’s getting him good but he’s not giving him _everything_ , and Brock is greedy, Brock is selfish, Brock is a goddamned whore. “Please, Jack. I want it. Wanna come. Please make me come, daddy, please let me.”

“That’s all it takes?” Jack says, a snarl, nasty and mean. He gets Brock by the hair again and twists him up, makes him bend near in half so he can speak directly in Brock’s ear. “Don’t fucking come yet.” Brock wants to whine, wants to beg louder, harder, more fervently, but Jack’s still talking and he also doesn’t want to miss a word. “You’re fuckin’ filthy, know that? So easy. You need a daddy. You need some kind of positive male attention, else you’ll be spreading your legs for who-the-fuck-ever.” Brock doesn’t know if that’s true. Brock only wants to spread his legs for Jack. But Jack would just call him a faggot for saying so, so he mewls instead and flexes his fingers, jolting when they brush against Jack’s hard, flexing stomach. It’s like touching a live wire, like touching a god. Brock is so close his teeth ache. “Don’t you think you should thank me, for being so good to you?”

“Thank you,” Brock gasps. He can feel every last nerve. His scalp burns where Jack grips his hair, and he’s sweating all over. It burns when the sweat seeps into where Jack belted him, hurts when Jack lets go of his hair and covers Brock’s body with his, broad chest against Brock’s stinging back. His nose feels a little tender from being smashed into the mattress, and his toes are cramped, curled under hard. He’s shaking, shaking, and he needs to fucking _come_. He thinks about just doing it anyway, just coming without waiting for Jack’s say-so, and the thought makes him jolt. He can’t imagine what the punishment would be. Trying to picture it makes his fingers clench up tight in the sheets, makes his spine curl, makes him screw up tight on Jack’s dick like he actually is coming. Jack would come up with something inventive, something fucking evil. Make him clean the kitchen floor with his tongue, or make him kneel naked on the side of the highway with a ‘fuck me’ sign pointed at his open mouth, or make him swallow Jack’s piss when Jack couldn’t be bothered to get up from the couch, or… or…

“Come.”

Brock’s coming before he even realizes Jack has given an order.

Jack pulls out before he's finished shaking through it, and Brock hears the wet, sloppy sound of Jack getting himself off. He tries to turn and looks, wants to watch, but Jack keeps a heavy hand on the back of Brock's neck, keeping him pinned. "Come inside me," Brock begs, trying to lift his hips. Jack takes his hand off his dick, spanks Brock once, very hard, and returns to jerking himself off. He comes, groaning, the thick wet ribbons of it landing on Brock's ass, very likely where Jack's handprint is blooming up in red. Brock wants to mourn the loss. If it's not leaking out of him, he at least wants to taste it, but his hands are still behind his back and Jack hasn't told him to move yet.

Jack drags two fingers through the mess and reaches around to pop them into Brock's mouth, pushing straight to the back. Brock doesn't have much of a gag reflex left and Jack takes advantage, knocking his knuckles into Brock's teeth so he can shove his fingers nearly down Brock's throat. "Whore," he says again, but it doesn't sound so mean this time. Brock still can't see him, but he sounds pleased. He's not ready for Jack to take his fingers away, to climb off of him, but he's glad when Jack laughs and smacks his hands apart. "It's fucking over, kid, you don't have to stay like that."

Brock flexes his fingers and rotates his wrists, enjoying the hurt, the bruises already blossoming. He wants to say that they don't have to be fucking for Brock to be good, to do what Jack wants, but that probably sounds stupid and faggy, so he rolls over and kisses Jack instead, not even caring that it's just as stupid and faggy. Jack lets him, kisses back for a second, then shoves Brock away with a hand around his throat. "You taste like come," Jack says, and he doesn't sound entirely upset about it. His thumb touches Brock's cheek, a little bit like a caress. Brock feels warm and happy and gay as fuck. Jack releases him and gets off the bed, his knees popping again.

"Jesus, you're old," Brock says, too well-fucked to think of a better insult. Jack smacks him for it, on the face, but it barely turns his head. Brock grins, flexing his jaw to make the slight sting of it last.

Jack tugs on his jeans and looks at Brock. "Wanna come help me finish the sink?" Brock squints, because he's never known Jack to want help, or to make an offer without an ulterior motive. Jack smiles then, teeth flashing. "It'll be fun. You can get on your knees and hold my tool in your mouth." The joke is beneath Jack but it makes Brock snicker, and Jack feigns disgust. "My wrench, you faggot. God, where'd you learn to be so filthy?"

"Learned it from you, daddy," Brock says, sweetly, and Jack throws his head back and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, mom.


End file.
